


The Cure for Election Night Nerves

by dancingdragon3



Series: Dancing with Demons [1]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst, F/F, Femslash, Frenemies, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingdragon3/pseuds/dancingdragon3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s election night, and Harriet Jones is now the leader of the winning party. All that implies is giving her the worst case of nerves. An unknown woman with an obvious agenda tries to help her out.<br/>Notes: Written for the prompt 'Harriet Jones: Election-night jitters', on Live Journal <a href="http://dw-guestfest.livejournal.com/">dw_guestfest</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cure for Election Night Nerves

Some people said they had butterflies in their stomachs when they got a case of nerves. Harriet got tiny, angry buzzards. She swallowed painfully, and rubbed at her stomach. Then tried to make it look like she had been smoothing down her jacket’s front. Like everything else lately, it was much finer than she was used to. Softer, silkier, and more tightly woven than her pajamas, never mind any suit she'd ever owned. It would be such a shame to vomit on it.

 _When you enter politics, Harry, you’re through the looking glass. Remember that. Because the world, the way you see it, the way you live in it, can never be the same again._

Professor Gardner had been a wonderful mentor, even though he insisted on calling her ‘Harry’. He’d taken his turn in politics, bookended by teaching political science and history. His peculiar habits made him a wonderful teacher, but, Harriet had always suspected, a terrible MP. As they say, those who can’t do, teach. 

He must have been right about a few things. Otherwise, she wouldn’t find herself seated on the most expensive leather sofa she’d ever touched, surrounded by the most powerful MPs in her party. There were also two members from the House of Lords in attendance, the sexiest woman she had ever seen in a government building, a man from MI-5, a man with a stone face, but shifty eyes, security personnel assigned to herself, and a liaison from the Queen. And all this, because it was expected that by the end of the evening, she, Harriet Jones, would be the presumptive Prime Minister of Great Britain. 

There was a painful halting in her chest. _Vomit or a coronary_. She fidgeted with her necklace. Pressing her palm over her heart, she took slow, steady breaths. She wasn’t usually a nervous person, but believed this situation would make anyone wish they’d brought a flask.

_Fear is always there, waiting to hold us back. Ignore it. Don’t stop to worry. Just stand up, and open your mouth. If you know what you’re about, and believe in yourself, the words will come. And when you’re confidence is hard to find, then remember that I believe in you, my precious, always._

Besides Mr. Gardner - she’d never been able to call him Elmer - Harriet owed her nauseated presence in such esteemed company to her mother’s advice. After blowing up Downing Street, she’d opened her mouth, and out had spilled words that had led directly to here. 

No one had been more surprised than her colleagues, who knew her as pushy, but relatively unambitious. But once she’d made up her mind, deciding she had to step forward, because who else knew what they were talking about but her, she had shown them one of the many sides of herself she kept hidden away. 

Being on the back bench didn’t mean she hadn’t been paying attention. Her mentor had been there for years, and had studied the process for a living. He told her things only someone who understood that world could know. Not changeable things like who was in power. But how power was seized, taken advantage of, and lost. He made sure she studied the right things at university, learned the right skills like debate, and, odd to her at first, how to read faces. 

_People are always lying about something. Especially in government. What’s important to figure out is what they’re lying about, and what they really want from you. And most of all, what they need from you. That’s what will then put you in the position of power. The power to negotiate. Which is all politics boils down to in the end._

And so with his lessons and her mother’s love backing her up, here she was, about to vomit in front of someone she suspected was an MI-6 agent. Indeed, Harriet had wanted to be in Flydale right now, to have one more night before this all became overbearing. Her mother didn’t understand what was going on, of course, but she still recognised her daughter. And her eyes would still be filled with love.

But her mother’s condition was stable, and they were winning around the country by landslides. It would look better if the new party leader was in town after they won a campaign filled with promises of responsive leadership. Flydale North had started returning earlier than usual, as had been the case in most constituencies. The faster the favorable results came in, the more nervous she had become. It was all but confirmed now. She was going to meet the Queen. 

Another wave of nausea made her stomach roll. _I’m going to have to take a pill_ , she thought, swallowing bile. Someone sat down next to her. _Oh, no, what?_ She was horrified. It was the blonde babe.

“Pardon me, but you look like you could use this.” Smiling kindly, the woman handed her a glass of water. 

Harriet took it, automatically. “Thank you, I’m...thank you.” She hastily took a drink. 

The other woman was closer to her age than Harriet had thought when seeing her from a distance. Besides the figure, and the hair, she had a lovely face - wide smile, lively eyes. And a very low dipping neckline. She looked back to the glass, mortified.

“Pardon me, I-I need a moment,” she said.

Harriet stumbled to her feet, gathering her purse from beside her. Cold water sloshed over her other hand. One of the security personnel directed her to a washroom. It was a single, elegantly furnished, with a wall hiding the toilet from the sitting area. She put the glass of water and her purse on the small table.

“That was so rude, Harriet. That was so rude,” she said loudly. _Oh, damn_. 

She tip-toed over to the wall, peering around it slowly. She sighed in relief at seeing the toilet with no one seated on it. Of course, they wouldn’t let her in a single washroom if it was occupied. The election, the attention, the lack of sleep was starting to pile up. And her sleeve was wet. 

_Damn._

She took a pill for indigestion, washing it down with the water. A long drink of brandy was next, because she was the type to bring a flask to stressful events like this. The slight burning on her tongue, the sweet, fruity aftertaste had just the right, steadying effect. It had been one of Mr. Gardner’s most surprising, but useful bits of wisdom. And the one thing he and her mother agreed upon. 

She hoped they would be proud of her. She inspected her reflection, smoothed over some creases in her skirt. Knew better than to try and make her hair look any better. No one expected their politicians to look like film stars. And other than that, the charcoal suit, her grandmother’s pearls, the polished leather shoes, it was all good. She looked right. She only wished...

Tears stung her eyes. She suddenly had to swallow. _Get a hold of yourself, woman_. She took another sip of the brandy. 

There was a short knock on the door before it swung open. Had she not locked it? What if she had been...

“Hullo?” A blonde head came round, attached to the curvaceous body of a woman wearing a low cut, grey dress. “I hope I’m not intruding. Just wanted to check on our new PM,” she smiled conspiratorially. 

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” 

“Oh, sorry, I tend to barge in. I’ve just been following you since the incident at Downing Street.” 

Harriet frowned.

“Following your career, I mean. What you’ve been saying...doing. It’s very impressive.” 

Harriet didn’t know what the woman could be on about. She couldn’t be serious. In fact she almost sounded like she was flirting, as unlikely a prospect as that was. Though it was very clear that cheery disposition was a mask. 

“Thank you...” 

“Yvonne Hartman.” She tilted her head up, like the name was very important. “Head of Torchwood.” 

“Torchwood.” Where had she heard that before? “Forgive me, I recognise the name, but what you do escapes me at the moment.” 

“No matter. I’m surprised you’ve heard of us at all. You’re not supposed to have.” Mrs. Hartman’s expression turned teasing. "We aren’t supposed to exist. Not to the public or Parliament."

“I see.” She’d heard it in passing, in the hallway of Downing from one of those alien experts. The one from UNIT. “So you would be involved with handling the...extremely external threats to our nation?”

Mrs. Hartman laughed. “That’s right.”

“And where were you when that ship crashed into the Thames?”

“Would you believe stuck in traffic?” She made a careless expression. 

Harriet’s face felt numb. An image of that poor secretary, Mr. Ganesh, came to her mind. “No, I wouldn’t. A good many people lost their lives that day. Servants of the British people.” 

Mrs. Hartman sobered immediately. “Of course. It is as you say, ma’am. UNIT was on sight, and...” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “There was another party on hand that we did not want to engage with. As he usually takes care of that sort of thing effectively, if not neatly, we felt our presence wasn’t needed.”

She was referring to the Doctor. Had to be. And feeling her out to see if she had met him. “And you’re supposed to be secret, even from the Prime Minister? Myself?” 

Her forehead creased slightly, a tiny frown, come and gone in a heartbeat. “Yes ma’am. We answer directly to the Crown.” She lifted her chin proudly. 

Meaning she did herself. Well, this was something wasn’t it? She drank from the flask, then offered it to the head of the secret alien fighting division. 

Mrs. Hartman hips swung easily as she slowly walked over. “Is this blackberry,” she asked after a sip. 

“Yes,” Harriet said, bemused.

“Cheers, my favorite.” The next sip was decidedly longer. 

Harriet took the opportunity to look down her dress with a little more attention. She’d definitely had enough to drink. She waved a hand, indicating them each in turn. “So, why reveal yourself to me? Wouldn’t this be treason?” 

“I’m not sure, actually.” It took obvious effort for the woman to reign in her smile. But, she did try. “Not for you, definitely. And there are those in UNIT and Torchwood who have always believed the PM should be informed of our activities. But, plausible deniability of alien life, and all that.” She rolled her eyes.

“The truth is we like operating without public oversight and interference, naturally. But the time for that is over, as I think you might understand. The people of the earth are under the greatest threat we’ve ever faced. And I don’t make that claim lightly. It is something I am sure of. I also know that if we continue to hide our power, and our knowledge, we are doomed. And today, the people have spoken. They agree with me, and you, that it’s time for new leadership, and a new direction for the British Empire.” 

“The British Empire is gone.” And had left a great stain in it’s wake. 

“For now.” Hartman dipped her head in that familiar way again, and lowered her voice. “Didn’t you ever pretend you were Elizabeth in fancy dress, with revolvers at your side, ordering armies and armadas to rule the world for you?”

She gave a wry grin. “More like Cromwell’s undersecretary.” 

“Oh, go on. Then why put yourself in this position?” 

_Someone’s got to get this sorted_.

“Someone had to take charge of the situation. Had to...reassure the people. And I’m the only one who knew...what a leader needs to know. To keep our people safe. That’s all I want. Not to rule the world,” she scoffed. 

“But protection, heading the military is the way to accomplish that. That’s the most important thing that rulers do. And if our alien enemies start conspiring with unstable nations and terrorist organizations, what then? Believe me, it’s a good thing Torchwood has been removing technology that our foreign visitors leave behind. I'll show you all we have, and you'll know I'm right. The only way to ensure the safety of Britain, is to ensure the security of the entire planet, first. And that’s the purpose of the New British Empire - a golden age of progress and enlightenment, free to flourish from all alien influence."

“You make it sound as though we’re in danger of being overrun by an alien hoarde at any moment.”

“We are, Madam Prime Minister.” She set the flask down on the table, and walked back to where Harriet was leaned against the sink. “You may have had one close encounter with the Slitheens, but I have records from every corner of the globe, going back hundreds of years of alien incursions, persuasion, and sabotage at the highest levels. You are now the head of state of the nation with the most experience dealing with the alien threat, never mind all that rubbish from Hollywood.” She waved her hand dismissively, then laid it on Harriet’s arm. Her hair smelled like roses and sandalwood. 

“You, myself, and Her Majesty are the three most powerful women in the world in that respect,” Mrs. Hartman said, sounding completely sincere for once. “That makes us responsible for using that power wisely, and to its fullest in defending our people, and our planet. Can I count on you, Mrs. Jones, for that? Can the Queen?” 

Harriet took a deep breath, and drew herself to her full height. “Yes, you can, Mrs. Hartman. I swear on my life as an Englishwoman. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to defend our country. From all her enemies.”

“Marvelous. You’ve just made me a very happy woman. And it’s Ms., by the way. The only Mr. Hartman was my beast of a father, god bless.” Expectation, with a hint of daring, shown bright as sunlight in her eyes. 

Harriet suspected the only person she ever fooled was herself. Though what this devious, gorgeous woman would ever want with her was painfully obvious. Also obvious, was that she hadn’t considered what all walking through the looking glass might entail. The hint of breast came into view for another split second.

“I...I’m a Ms. as well. Never married.” She attempted to keep her face neutral, but wasn’t sure she succeeded. 

“Have you ever been in love?” 

“Pardon?” Surprised, she took a step back, hitting her rear on the sink.

Ms. Hartman held fast to her arm, innocent, earnest expression unphased. Waiting. Still testing her. She was going to be a nightmare to work with, and lesbianism most likely had nothing to do with why she wasn’t married. 

Harriet started to protest, but closed her mouth. Cleared her throat. Working together. No matter what she said, they were going to be working together, on the biggest secret ever to be revealed to mankind. 

“I don’t know.” A short, helpless laugh escaped. She shook her head. “I don’t know.” 

Blue eyes softened with so much compassion, it was more shocking than her question had been. “I think we’re going to get on famously,” she said breezily, expression changing again, as false ones were want to do. “I’ve always been of the mind that people like us, people with important work to do, should always be on the job. And in that case, the only sane thing to do is to mix business with pleasure, because how else would we get either done?” 

“Ms. Hartman, and pardon me, please, but has anyone ever suggested you may be a bit mad?” 

Instead of being insulted, the contrary woman looked delighted. “Oh, I should say! Only a mad woman would get to where I am, and be the perfect person to be here. Well, one of two perfect people.” She gave a diffident nod. 

Yes, she had to have been mad to put her own self in this position. Yet, here she was. And Ms. Hartman was correct. She was perfect for it. She took her hand. “So two mad women are going to usher in a new age for Queen and country, by showing the aliens the backend of our planet. Is that your scheme?” 

“Quite right. Well said, Prime Minister.” She bounced lightly on her toes.

A waft of rose and sandalwood teased Harriet again.

“But you forgot to mention the pleasure. Unless you weren’t interested in that part?”

Those falsely innocent baby blues were back. She practised in front of a mirror. Had to. Harriet wondered where the line between lies and truth lay with Yvonne Hartman, Head of Torchwood. “Is this something I really need to answer now?” 

“No, but a I like to know where I stand," Ms. Hartman said with a small pout. "Especially before going into such an important event. And meetings.” 

_With the Queen, she means._

“Normally, our offices would be horrid rivals, I fear. But I’d much rather us be friends. We’d be ever so much more productive that way.” 

_Horrid. Yes, working with her may be productive, but it will also, definitely be horrid. When not working, though_... Harriet knew she was probably wildly overestimating her ability to keep her head about her. But, in for a penny, in for a pound, her mother always said. Straightening her spine once more, she wrapped her free arm around Ms. Hartman and drew her close. 

The shorter woman looked genuinely surprised. Good. She pressed the temporary advantage, using a move she’d only read about. She leaned down until her face was buried in all that lovely hair, took a deep inhale that pressed their breasts together, then let it out so that her breath caressed down the other woman’s neck. Ms. Hartman shivered, and tried to look at her, but now she was the one who held fast. 

“I’ll take that pleasurable friendship you’re offering, Ms. Hartman,” she murmured. “But, please remember that I am Harriet Jones, Prime Minister of Great Britain. I am not George Bush, and you are not Dick Cheney. So you will not be running me.” She pulled back enough to look her in the eye. There was nothing but surprise and respect from those blue eyes now. “Are we clear?” 

Nodding, Ms. Hartman ran her hands up her wool and silk covered arms. “Oh, yes. That’s very clear, Madame Minister. Famously, just as I said.” 

Harriet guessed this one came with all the trimmings - the finest skin creams in half a dozen scents, flavors, bath oils, candles, sheer negligees. Snuggled close, her body was soft and warm. _My lord, what am I thinking?_ They’d only met ten minutes ago. She cleared her throat. “Well, I think if we’re going to go run the world, we should probably leave this toilet sometime this evening.” 

Ms. Hartman pouted again. “I suppose. They’ll be waiting to make the announcement. Your acceptance speech.” 

A shot of adrenaline flew through her. _Lord, how could I have forgotten about that?_ She should have been practising. _Just stand up and open your mouth. Just stand up and..._

“Oh, don’t worry.” Ms. Hartman hugged her.

 _Yvonne_. The hug was much too brief.

“You’ll do fine. I’ve seen you. You’re a natural.” 

_I should kiss her. Right now._ That toothy smile was making her giddy. Yvonne’s expression turned sly, like she knew exactly what she was thinking. Harriet leaned down a little closer, slowly, letting her attention stray to her lips. They were very, very good lips. _I am mad. And drunk_. 

The knock on the door was discreet, but surprising none the less. It startled her so, she stepped on Yvonne’s foot, then jerked back, hitting the sink again. “Sorry, _damn_.” She reached out, trying to steady them both. 

Yvonne laughed, squeazed her arm, then limped to the door that she had apparently remembered to lock. “It’s alright. You can make it up to me later,” she called over her shoulder. After a hushed conversation, she let in a man she introduced as her assistant. 

“He’ll make you the perfect right hand man, I promise,” Yvonne said after explaining how the liaison would work. 

“I’m sure.” He reminded her of Ganesh. “What was your name again, young man?” 

“Alex Ward, ma’am.”

She nodded, and noticed Yvonne studying her. “I think it’s very important to know everyone’s name,” she said. 

“Again, that makes two of us. Shall we go, ma’am?” Yvonne opened the door for her. 

She took in the two new faces. _Look at this, Mr. Gardner. Your Harry's got cohorts_. The tiny buzzards seemed to have finally been drowned out. “Yes, I believe it’s time.” She picked up her purse, hid the flask away, and walked through the looking glass.


End file.
